There's Always Something
by Resrie71
Summary: How could Sherlock have missed this very important fact about John?


**There's Always Something**

John straightened his collar and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it just slightly. Satisfied with his reflection, he stepped out of the bathroom and headed over to his chair to grab his jacket.

"Going somewhere?" intoned Sherlock from where he lay on the sofa in an epic sulk.

"I have a date," John responded, checking his pockets for wallet, keys...condoms... "You were only planning on ignoring me this evening anyway, surely I don't actually need to _be_ here for you to do that."

"It's a bit difficult to ignore you if you aren't _here_ to be ignored," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, then maybe you should pretend to have a conversation with me. Lord knows you do that whether I'm here or not..."

"Where are you taking her?"

John smirked, just slightly, hardly noticeable if you weren't watching him (but Sherlock was _always_ watching John)."Just down to the pub. Half price pints tonight and a dart tournament starting at eleven, so don't wait up."

"You're really pulling out all the stops, positively trying to impress! Don't know if I'd put sharp objects in her hands after plying her with cheap drinks, though. I know you like to live dangerously, but she might be a bit put out at the lack of...regard... displayed by your choice of venue for a first date."

John raised a brow. "For your information, Terry picked our engagement for the evening."

Sherlock harrumphed. "Where did you meet her?"

John gave one last glance at his reflection in the living room window. "At the clinic. New nurse."

The buzzer sounded twice, quickly.

"That'll be Terry," John grinned and headed for the door. "Don't wait up." He practically ran down the stairs.

Sherlock turned his face back to the sofa cushions. John certainly seemed keyed up for this date. Sherlock hadn't seen him in such a state in...ever.

His curiosity got the best of him. He peeled himself off the sofa and looked out the living room window to the street below. They were just crossing the street now, John and his _date_? How could that be? Dr. John I'm-not-gay Watson, was dating a _man_?

There could be no mistaking it. No thought of 'maybe he and a friend are meeting their dates at the pub' was possible. Not with _John's_ hand on the small of his companion's back, two fingers just brushing over the swell of his buttocks. _Terry_ could be seen to lean in and laugh at something John said.

To say that Sherlock paced that evening would have been the crudest understatement.

Their behavior clearly displayed an attraction to each other. Sherlock had also heard the unmistakable sound of condoms (yes, more than one) being torn off the strip from the box in the loo when John was getting ready. John had fussed over his appearance more than usual tonight as well, tousling his hair the slightest bit, repeatedly checking his reflection before leaving...when John was meeting a woman he always made sure his clothing was appropriate and clean, but that was the end of it. Obviously this date had a higher priority than was typical.

How had he missed this? Had he truly misread the situation that badly? Sherlock ran his fingers up into his hair, clenching them in his inky curls and pulling hard enough to make himself wince. He thought back to that first night at Angelo's...

John had said that he wasn't Sherlock's date. Which was true. However, he had responded "good" to finding out that Sherlock was unattached, like him. That certainly suggested a willingness for a same sex relationship. However, when Sherlock had turned down his advances, John seemed only too happy forget the matter entirely. It wasn't too long after that the veritable parade of women began. Then John began with the whole "I'm not gay" campaign. He should have had it put on a t-shirt. Sherlock had been forced to conclude that he had simply read the situation wrong and that John was simply heterosexual. Relationships, after all, were hardly his area. Ah, but wait. John had said he wasn't gay, he had never said he wasn't bi.

Not for the first time Sherlock regretted turning John down so resolutely that first night. But who could blame him? Sherlock cold-logical-unemotional-sociopath Holmes had felt himself losing control within _minutes_ of meeting Dr. John BAMF-to-beat-all-BAMFs Watson. He had _winked _at the man for crying out loud!

When they had met the next evening to look at the flat, he thought he had himself under control again, but he all but bounded up the stairs. The whole time they were there, he couldn't stop moving, even before Lestrade showed up with the suicide case. He'd _had_ to leave him behind at the crime scene. John's oh-so-potent presence, the strange feeling in his chest at being complimented by him _in front of other people_, combined with the adrenaline rush of the case, and seclusion in the darkened alleys he knew he would be investigating...oh, the result would have been disastrous.

Yes, rejecting John that night had been the only way to put some distance between them, had been the only way for Sherlock to acclimatize to John's presence. But had he put _too much_ distance between them? Sherlock had come to be worried that John would become serious with one of his girlfriends and move out. At the first sign of attachment, Sherlock always began his sabotage crusade. Texts, rudeness, even showing up during the date if the woman in question was tenacious enough.

What was he supposed to do now? For some reason, these tactics didn't seem to be applicable in this situation. The social dynamic between two men was different enough that these methods would make him seem pathetic, wouldn't they? He couldn't be sure. It wasn't like he had a wealth of successful relationships to draw on.

One thing was certain. Sherlock was definitely waiting up for John tonight.

~0~0~0~0~0~

John trudged his way up the stairs to the flat, pausing at the landing and leaning against the wall. John sighed heavily, and thumped the back of his head against the wall repeatedly. What a night. It was just going on 1am, he should _not_ be home yet, not after such a promising date. Terry had been wonderful; smart, funny, openly friendly. He was tall (but not as tall as a certain consulting detective), with clear grey eyes (not the verdigris of said consulting detective), with thick, nearly shoulder length chestnut hair (not as curly as that of a previously mentioned consulting detective)...oh hell, that had been the problem all night long hadn't it?

No matter how wonderful Terry was, he wasn't _amazing_, he wasn't _fantastic_, he wasn't _**Sherlock**_.

John knew he had a problem. A major problem. What kind of relationship was going to be possible for him? No woman he had met was half as interesting, as stimulating as his flatmate. And deep down, they all wanted the same thing: marriage, a home, and kids. As much as he knew he was supposed to want those things, that life just sounded remarkably...flat...to him. The evening with Terry proved that no man could ever _not_ be compared with Sherlock. And face it, no one who was compared with Sherlock would ever come up as anything other than wanting.

John knew the same was true for himself as well. Side by side, how could he ever hope to compare with Sherlock? Next to Sherlock he was nothing special. Short. Average-looking at best. Pushing forty. Hell, he hadn't even been able to walk unaided when he was on his own. He couldn't be a surgeon anymore due to the tremor in his hand. His PTSD left him with nightmares and struggling to deal with any number of situations. How could Sherlock ever look at him and see anything worthwhile?

He had tried to bury it all deep, but from their first encounter at Bart's it was a lost cause. He had never felt so exposed, yet so intrigued before in his life. He'd barely spoken to the man, and Sherlock had rattled off half of his life story. By the time Sherlock had abandoned him at the crime scene he knew that he would never be impressed by anyone else's intelligence, ever again.

At Angelo's, he had nervously decided to test the waters. He had steered the conversation to relationships, albeit a bit awkwardly, and had been rather pleased to discover that Sherlock was unattached, like him. Good. Then he quickly learned that 'unattached' certainly did not equate to 'available'. Sherlock had expressed in no uncertain terms, his disinterest in relationships in general, and in John in particular. After such a dressing down, the only option left to him was to act as if no attraction had ever existed, or was even possible. Anything else would have been utterly humiliating.

Not that he could blame Sherlock at all. He was gorgeous, brilliant, and so superior to everyone else; how could he consider a relationship with some lesser creature to be worth his time or attention? The rest of humanity was probably unbearably dull in comparison...

Which brought him full circle back to his disastrous date with Terry.

It had started off well enough. A couple of pints and smalltalk about work and mutual acquaintances. Getting their names in for the tournament. Reminiscing about how long it had been since either of them had played. The tournament had been fun, but they had been knocked out after the first round. They had sat down to their pints and conversation. Then the problems started. Mentally, John couldn't help but to constantly compare his date to Sherlock. Conversationally, all he had to talk about were the various cases and adventures he'd had with Sherlock. First dates were supposed to be entertaining, but there was little of his early life that would qualify, and there was damn little of Afghanistan that could possibly be categorized as such. All of his funny stories were about Sherlock.

Needless to say, it wasn't long before Terry was tired of hearing about Sherlock. His parting comment had been "When you break up with Sherlock, let me know."

John sighed again, pushing himself away from the wall to continue up the stairs. John paused upon reaching the landing outside the door to their flat, closed for once against the chill in the hallway. He could really use a cuppa, but that would mean possibly dealing with Sherlock's breakdown of his failed date. That was just not worth contemplating right now. John turned away to proceed up the stairs to his room.

He had barely gained the second step when the door to the flat was yanked open violently. Shite.

"Back so soon?" Sherlock queried nastily.

"Not in the mood right now, Sherlock" John replied without even turning to face him, continuing up the stairs.

"You seemed so...optimistic...about this _date_ with _Terry_..."

"I said, I'm not in the mood!" John snarled, spinning around to glare at Sherlock.

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut, eyes widening at at both the tone of John's voice and the alarming look in his eyes. John turned away, continued up to his room, and closed the door firmly, just short of slamming it.

~0~0~0~0~0~

Sherlock turned and strode back into the flat, collapsing in his armchair. He could have handled that better, he supposed. He had meant to ask John about his date, to gauge his mood after spending the evening in the company of a man he was interested in romantically. Had meant to find out when the renewed romantic interest in men had come about in the first place.

Initially, when he had heard John's footsteps on the stairs he had felt pleased, followed rapidly by blind panic. Pleased at the thought that the date had not gone well, hence John's early return. Panicked at the thought the the date had gone _very_ well...John wouldn't bring _him_ back _here_, would he? How in the world would Sherlock deal with that? The very idea made him feel quite ill.

Sherlock quickly realized that there was only one set of footsteps on the stairs. Relief flooded through him. The date hadn't gone well then. But then John had stopped halfway up and spent several minutes at the landing. Doing what? Even through the closed door of the flat he could hear John sigh. He heard the dull thud of John lightly thumping his head against the wall. Depressed? Upset? What had happened tonight to cause him such distress?

Relief was quickly replaced by anger. No not anger. It was something similar, yet completely foreign. Ah. Jealousy. No wonder he hadn't recognized it immediately, having never felt the like before. Had John been so invested in this date that he was truly upset at its failure? Who was this Terry who was so important to John? What was it about him that John found fascinating? That John was interested in enough to finally demonstrate an interest in dating men?

And most importantly, what could Sherlock do to transfer that interest to himself? Would John even consider Sherlock after the way he had turned him down that first night?

All of this had spun through his mind in the time it took to hear John pause outside the door to the flat, and then unmistakably turn to go directly to his room. The jealousy at John's apparent feeling for this Terry character had forced the confrontation and inflammatory words out of his mouth before he could stop them. Christ. Maybe the best thing that Sherlock could do would be to leave John Watson alone, forget the idea of being with him. Tonight was a perfect example of why this relationship...thing...was such a bad idea. Most of John's relationships lasted less than two months, and frequently ended due to seemingly trivial differences. How much worse would it be if he got to be with John, love John, only to anger him and destroy it all? And it was absolutely inevitable that he would make John angry. He could seldom go more than a handful of days without John storming out claiming that he needed some air. Living with John as just his friend would be awful. If he left... Living without John, knowing John hated him, would be torture beyond belief.

~0~0~0~0~0~

John Watson rolled over in bed and cursed the daylight. He was not looking forward to seeing Sherlock this morning, dealing with his deductions, his attitude, and dealing with his own damnable attraction for the impossible man.

Things would be so much easier if it had worked out with Terry, hell, if it had worked out with anyone at all for that matter. A decent relationship would probably be enough to get him over his fascination for his flatmate. Then he could stop focusing on Sherlock all the time, and have a reasonable conversation whilst on a date. But the conversation wasn't going to happen until he could stop comparing his dates to Sherlock. And he couldn't stop comparing everyone to Sherlock until he got over him. Bloody buggering fuck. He was screwed.

He dressed slowly and generally delayed going downstairs as long as possible. When there was no delaying the inevitable, he headed down.

~0~0~0~0~0~

Sherlock was in the kitchen, his back towards John, eyes glued to his microscope. His hair was still damp from his recent shower and curling at the nape of his neck. John swiped his hand down his face. Just his luck that Sherlock would be impeccably dressed in the purple shirt and tailored trousers that made John practically drool. There was no way an arse that plush belonged on a body that whipcord lean. John hadn't though he could feel more frumpy than when he had got out of bed. Wrong again. Like he needed more proof that he didn't have a prayer with this beautiful man.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock's baritone rumbled through John's very core.

"Ga.." John cleared his throat, tried again. "G'morning," God, he sounded like an idiot. He stumbled his way over to the kettle. "Tea?"

"Please." The silence stretched out between them.

Then it stretched some more.

How could this silence be so uncomfortable? They had spent entire _days_ together in quiet, companionable silence. Why was this so _difficult_?

"Sher-"

"John-" they both began at once.

Slight, tense smiles appeared on both of their faces.

"You first," John murmured.

"I...apologize...for my outburst last night. It was uncalled for." Sherlock uttered, hesitantly.

"I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that." Somehow, the apologies left the mood even more tense. The kettle clicked off and John poured the heated water into the two mugs. A change of subject was definitely called for. "I've got to go into the clinic for a few hours this afternoon. We're getting some deliveries and doing inventory. Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"We're out of milk." Sherlock felt a weight settle in his chest. Would Terry be there? There was no way he could ask without seeming spiteful, or worse, needy. What if they talked? Decided to go out again? Maybe if he made plans with John first...

"Dinner tonight?" Sherlock asked, trying, and failing, to keep the hopeful note out of his voice.

"Sure, we'll order a take-away when I get back." John sighed, relieved that things weren't weird between them; or at least no weirder than normal.

~0~0~0~0~0~

As the few minutes of silence that morning had stretched into what felt like hours, so the hours of the afternoon felt like days while John was at the clinic.

Sherlock cursed his overly agile brain as it conjured up scenario after scenario in which John and Terry talked things out, decided to go out again, stole away for moments in the store rooms for brief, but heated kisses. Sometimes the kisses weren't so brief. He was going mad. There was no other explanation.

Finally, he heard footsteps on the stairs.

~0~0~0~0~0~

John winced as he shouldered the front door closed and began to climb the stairs. The bag with the milk and a can of beans for tomorrow's breakfast was cutting into his right hand, but there was certainly no carrying anything in his left. He'd be lucky if he could even move his left arm tomorrow.

Thank heavens the door to the flat was open. He shuffled in and was thrilled to see adequate space on the table to set the bags down. Sherlock straightened and took in John's pain-filled face.

"John! What happened? Are you hurt?" Stupid! Obviously he was hurt! Could he sound any more pathetic?

"Got in some boxes of saline bags, heavy buggers, and didn't they have to get put up on some of the higher shelves? Had to heft one up over my head...shoulder is killing me. Swear I heard something pop in it."

"And you still stopped to get the milk on the way home. Idiot." Sherlock was incensed. But wait, there were possibilities here...

"Not like you were going to go out and get it." John grunted with pain as he removed his jacket.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. No sense appearing too eager. "Get your shirt off and sit in your chair. I'll get the muscle rub."

"It's fine, Sherlock. I was just going to take a hot shower. That should take care of the worst of it." John's voiced trembled, just slightly. Was Sherlock offering him a massage? His mouth went dry.

Sherlock tilted his head a bit, considering. "You're right, John. Go ahead and get in the shower. The heat will relax some of the ache away and make the massage more effective."

Oh dear god. He _was_ offering a massage. No, actually, from the tone of voice it wasn't an offer at all. More a statement of fact. Sad thing was, he couldn't bring himself to argue, and that wasn't just the pain talking.

He found himself under the spray without really being aware of how he came to be there. He was grateful for the shower, he had gotten quite sweaty and dirty between unloading the delivery truck and sorting through the older boxes of supplies. Even without the agony of his shoulder, this would have felt good. That's it, keep your thoughts here and now. Don't think about Sherlock's hands on you in a few minutes...

Damn.

He could already feel himself starting to thicken at the thought of Sherlock touching him. Oh, this was all kinds of not good. If he moaned it could be put off to the pain in his shoulder. Other reactions however...not so explainable.

John shut off the water, knowing that Sherlock was waiting for him and would certainly hear if he tried to preemptively wank to give himself some control. He stepped out and realized his next problem. He had neglected to bring clean clothes in with him, and what he had shucked off before getting into the shower was in no condition to be put back on. He didn't even have his dressing gown in here. He'd just have to sling a towel around his waist and get some clothes from upstairs...

"Ah, John, you're ready. Come sit down." Sherlock, still facing away from him, gestured toward John's armchair.

"Let me just pop upstairs and get some clothes."

"Nonsense, we need to start the massage while your muscles are still warm from the shower." Sherlock turned to place a hand on John's back to guide him to the chair. For the first time, his eyes took in the shirtless form of his flatmate.

He swallowed. His eyed widened slightly. John was still remarkably...fit... from his military service. Why did he insist on covering himself up all the time? His chest, shoulders, and abdominals were...impressive. The scarring on his left shoulder was even more so. It was quite extensive, indicating several surgeries to repair the damage from the sniper's bullet. He couldn't be ashamed of this, could he? If anything, evidence of what this man could take and still survive was rather...intimidating.

John saw the expression on Sherlock's face and looked away, suddenly nervous. "Its alright if you don't want to, I know it looks ghastly." Disappointment flooded through him. He had hoped it wouldn't matter to Sherlock, even though it had very obviously nauseated quite a few of the women he had dated. He should have known better, this was why he always made sure he had on a shirt, or three.

"No! It's fine, really. It's fine..." Sherlock's voice trailed off. His eyes seemed to be devouring the mess that was John's shoulder. "I didn't realize the extent of the damage...May I?" He raised his hand toward John's shoulder.

John nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

"The initial entry wound was rather small, but there were two incisions from the front to extract the bullet fragments." Sherlock spoke quietly as his nimble fingers ghosted over the mentioned scars. "The exit wound and subsequent scarring indicate that two procedures were needed from the back to repair the damage to the scapula. Pins and a plate were used due to how badly it was shattered." He paused. "Since you weren't going to be redeployed, very little was offered to you in terms of physical therapy." His voice had a decided edge to it. "You are typically British and refuse to ask for help or massage when it would obviously benefit you. That will stop today, John Watson. Sit." Sherlock's tone brooked no argument.

John sat.

Sherlock moved to stand behind John. He retrieved the bottle of massage oil from his trouser pocket where it had been warming while John was in the shower. He noted John's stiff posture, settled a hand gently on his back.

"Lean forward a bit, so I can get to both sides. And relax. This won't work if you don't relax."

Sherlock spilled a bit of the oil into his palm and rubbed his hands together, warming the oil further. He applied a hand to both the front and back of John's shoulder and began with gentle pressure, kneading slowly. He alternated the motion with running his hands up over the top and squeezing lightly to warm up the muscle. His anger at John's self abuse began to dissipate as this opportunity to touch, to _feel_ John under his hands became his focus.

John sighed as he began to relax in spite of himself. Sherlock had started off gently, slowly increasing pressure to work the soreness from his much-abused shoulder. If he closed his eyes and concentrated his could almost pretend that this was simply an appointment with a physical therapist, at least until...

"Is the pressure too much?" Sherlock's velvet voice positively _slithered_ over every exposed inch of John's skin. He felt his cock twitch at the intimate nature of that voice.

"No, it's good. Could take a little more actually." John opened one eye as Sherlock grunted slightly, the angle awkward for him to maintain due to his height.

"Lean a bit left and extend your arm over the chair," Sherlock requested as he straightened and stretched his back. John complied and then his eyes widened as Sherlock sank to his knees next to John's chair. "I can get closer and use more pressure this way." Sherlock applied more oil to his hands and bent again to his task.

John snapped his eyes shut again to avoid the frankly carnal vision of Sherlock on his knees. His sleeves were rolled up so as not to stain them with the oil and his sinewy forearms rippled as he worked out the kinks in the damaged joint. Oh God, don't even think the _word '_kinks'. This was worse torture than anything he had gone through in Afghanistan. Or before. Or after.

Sherlock was struggling to keep his touch clinical. He wanted so badly to turn the kneading motion into a caress, a stroke. To touch so much more than just his shoulder. To run his nails lightly down John's back...

Sherlock mentally shook himself. Cleared his throat, swallowed. "Is it helping?" He cursed inwardly as his voice trembled slightly, despite his best efforts.

John gasped lightly. The change in position caused Sherlock's breath to brush his neck, his ear. Goosebumps prickled over his shoulder and neck. Down his arm.

"Yeah, it is, but..." he nearly squeaked as his voice trailed off. He began to pull away.

Sherlock exerted enough pressure to keep him seated. He leaned in closer and practically growled in John's ear, "I'm not done yet."

John's eyes snapped to meet Sherlock's of their own volition. He couldn't have looked away if his life depended on it. He felt his heart start to pound.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He thoroughly surveyed John's face, reading and deducing every detail. No, it couldn't be...but...His voice rumbled softly through the otherwise silent room.

"Your respirations are quicker and more shallow. Your pupils are dilated. Your hands are shaking..." His eyes dipped much lower to John's lap, reading even more evidence. "John, you are _aroused_..."

John shuddered as the rich baritone shivered over his skin. "No, I'm just..." It came out as a croak.

"Just _what_, John?" Now he intentionally leaned as close as he could get to John's ear, breathing the words more than speaking them. "Can you deny that you are responding to me? To me touching you? To my voice?" Sherlock shifted so he was kneeling in front of the chair, slid his hands so they cupped John's face, not allowing him to look away. As if he could.

"But you don't..." John stammered, the intensity of Sherlock's gaze rendering him speechless. He swallowed audibly. Closed his eyes. Drew in a shuddering breath. Tried again. "You don't do this. And you don't want me, you made that clear."

"Don't I, John? You know my methods. Use them."

John opened his eyes and immediately met Sherlock's, only a few scant inches from his own. His pupils were blown so wide only the barest band of crystalline blue could be seen at the edge. He pulled back slightly to gaze at Sherlock kneeling before him and saw symptoms mirroring his own, including the tent forming at the front of Sherlock's trousers. With his eyes lowered, John realized that the towel had gaped away from him, his own arousal blatantly on display.

John met Sherlock's gaze again. Sherlock read confusion, but also, hope. For crying out loud, did he have to spell it out? He raised his hands to John's face again, leaned in...

The first touch of their lips was tentative, barely brushing. John moaned, exquisitely. He licked his lips, and was still close enough to Sherlock that his tongue touched Sherlock's lips as well. This time the groan didn't come from John.

"Are you sure? You want this? You want...me?" John's tone turned doubtful.

"_Yes_, John! Now, please, get _on_ with it..." Sherlock winced to hear himself plead like this.

"Wh-what do you want, exactly?" John certainly didn't want to offend or disgust Sherlock. Right now, there wasn't much he _didn't_ want to do...

"I...I...I'm not...I don't..." Sherlock flushed, embarrassed at his lack of ability to express himself.

"Oh, God," murmured John. "You've never done any of this before, have you?" He pulled back and took a deep steadying breath.

"Never saw the need." Sherlock grimaced, aware that his inexperience was so obvious. His arousal was seriously flagging, the mood between them beginning to feel nearly as strained as it had this morning. "Sorry to disappoint you." Sherlock began to rise up off the floor.

"No! Sherlock, no. Not disappointed at all." John was absolutely clutching Sherlock's forearm, not letting him retreat further. "Flattered, actually. But I'll be damned if your first time is going to be us rutting on the floor in the sitting room." He gave into an impulse he had been stifling for what felt like centuries and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Your room or mine?"

Sherlock purred at the touch, the friction light against his scalp. "Yours," he whispered. He was agitated enough, if he was going to go through with this, and he desperately wanted to, he wanted to be surrounded by John, by his scent, in his bed.

"I hope we can make it that far," John groaned theatrically. He pulled Sherlock in for a quick, closed-mouthed kiss, not trusting himself to do more and still make it up the stairs.

He twined his fingers through Sherlock's and stood, the towel falling forgotten back onto the chair. John pulled Sherlock up with him, pressed him back slightly. As Sherlock stepped back, John stepped forward, just enough to keep Sherlock backing up. John steered him back toward the stairs, keeping him moving. For once in their relationship, John was in control and he'd be damned if he gave it up.

John threaded his other hand through Sherlock's hair and pulled him down for a kiss, all the while backing him toward the stairs. Feet traveling one way, head leaning other, John's kiss sucking all the breath from him, Sherlock was nearly overwhelmed. Only sparing enough concentration to keep him from sprawling on the floor was keeping him from being completely swept away.

Backing up the stairs was logistically difficult, what with John being shorter and Sherlock being higher up the incline. Now it wasn't so much John pushing Sherlock back, but John being led forward, determined not to break contact with Sherlock's mouth. There was still no doubt who was in control. John felt positively high.

They crashed through John's door, staggered back the few steps and plummeted onto John's bed, John sprawled out half on top of Sherlock, pinning him gently. John's feeling of triumph was short-lived as he realized that he was completely naked, while Sherlock was still fully clothed. _That_ needed to be rectified immediately. He began unbuttoning that sinful purple shirt, pressing kisses to the newly exposed flesh as he went.

"John?" Sherlock gasped, barely audible. He was thoroughly aroused, but also increasingly nervous.

"What is it, love?" Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, but John was too focused on Sherlock's demeanor to note it. "What's wrong?"

"It's just, could we turn of the light? I'm not..." Sherlock cringed at how pathetic he sounded.

John was flabbergasted. No. _This_ man was insecure about his looks? Thought John would see him and find him wanting? It wasn't possible, but it was all written plain as day on Sherlock's gorgeously sculpted face.

"You don't know, do you? You really don't," John shook his head, disbelieving.

"I know lots of things, John. Including the fact that I am hardly what anyone would find attractive. I'm skinny..."

"Lean."

"...my face is too angular..."

"Exotic."

"...my eyes are a peculiar color..."

"Breathtaking."

"...my hair requires massive effort to make it presentable..."

"Untamed."

"...and is a boring muddy color."

"Rich mahogany."

"What?" Sherlock finally paused, as if only then realizing that John had spoken. "Please, John, I'm not stupid. People stare at me like some circus _freak_ wherever I go." His emphasis on the name Donovan called him unrelentingly snapped John to attention. He pinned Sherlock with a determined stare.

"Listen to me, Sherlock. You will _never_ use that term for yourself again, do you hear me? If people stare at you, its because they can't rip their eyes away from someone as breathtakingly gorgeous as you. What a potential GQ model like yourself wants with someone like _me_, that's the question."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open. Was John blind? "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Please, next to you, I'm completely average. Actually, next to you, 'average' is being quite generous."

"There is _nothing_ average about you, John Watson. Average implies dull, boring, and tedious. Commonplace. You always manage to surprise me, John."

"How do _I _surprise _you_?" John asked, astounded.

"We are here, aren't we?" Sherlock pointed out the obvious.

John paused for a moment, reflecting on the evening. "Then I guess we're both pretty amazing, aren't we?" He grinned at Sherlock's doubtful expression. "So can I leave the light on? Please?"

Sherlock looked pained. "If you must."

John immediately set about proving to Sherlock that he was, indeed, desirable. He continued to work his way through the buttons of that damn purple shirt, spreading it open as soon as he possibly could. He ran his hand lightly across Sherlock's chest, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock as his fingers brushed over a nipple.

"Sensitive, are we?" John very deliberately inserted his index finger into his mouth and ran his tongue around it. Withdrawing it, he circled it around the now erect nipple, then blew on it lightly.

Sherlock's entire torso jerked at the sensation. John lowered his head to run his tongue over said nipple, and Sherlock groaned. Loudly.

John continued his attentions while slowly stroking the rest of Sherlock's chest and stomach, gradually working his way lower. Lower still. Lower, until he palmed Sherlock's erection through his trousers.

"John!" Sherlock cried out, his hand covering John's, unsure whether to pull John's hand away or apply more pressure. For the first time in his life, he chose the physical over the intellectual and ground his hips upward, generating more friction.

John gasped at the look on Sherlock's face as he became lost in sensation. He was going to have to be careful here. As much as he wanted to plunder this delectable body and wring every ounce of pleasure from it that he could, he knew that it wouldn't take much to overwhelm Sherlock. The last thing he needed to do was make Sherlock self conscious of his responses...

Raising his head, John settled a light but lingering kiss on Sherlock's lips, concentrating on keeping his more intimate touch just as light. He trailed small kisses along Sherlock's jaw, began nuzzling at his ear. "Relax, Sher, we've got all night. And I plan on _taking_ all night..."

John pushed back slightly against Sherlock's hand that was covering his own. Sherlock lifted his hand, dropped it back at his side. As John began to undo Sherlock's belt, Sherlock began to tremble, ever so slightly. What if John was disappointed? He had gotten a reasonably good look at John downstairs when the towel had fallen open, displaying his arousal. He knew he was nowhere near as well endowed as John, even turning out the lights wouldn't hide that...

Belt open, John set himself to undoing the fastening of Sherlock's trousers. He slid the zipper down and...

"Oh Christ, you're not wearing any pants...Do you ever?" John oh so gently slid his hand into the opening of Sherlock's trousers and lightly curled his fingers around Sherlock's cock. His first stroke resulted in a full body shudder from Sherlock.

"Only with jeans," Sherlock whispered. He swallowed with difficulty. "They ruin the line of my trousers."

"Only with...my God, I'd love to see you in jeans. On second thought, I don't think we'd ever make it out of the flat..." John began trailing kisses down Sherlock's chest, down...

"John! Stop!" Sherlock gasped in a whispered shout. He sat up and scooted away a few inches, any further and he would fall off John's more narrow bed.

"Sherlock, what is it? Did I go to fast? Do you not want to...?" John both sounded and looked alarmed and somewhat...guilty... "I'm sorry, I thought you wanted to..."

"I did, John...I _do_," Sherlock corrected at John's slight wince. "I just don't want to disappoint you. I'm not very..." He trailed off, embarrassed.

John heaved out a relieved sigh. _This_ he could handle. He edged toward Sherlock, placing a hand upon his chest. "You cannot possibly disappoint me, love. Every bit of you is perfect. Every. Bit." John's gaze wandered purposefully down to Sherlock's open trousers. To Sherlock's somewhat flagging erection. As he leaned in to place a feathery kiss on Sherlock's lips he breathed, "Your cock is long and lean, like the rest of you. Look at me." He directed Sherlock's gaze with his own, down to his own arousal. "Do I look _disappointed_?"

Sherlock's mouth went dry. He had to clear his throat to speak. "No. No, you look..." He swallowed. His eyes took in John's somewhat shorter, but much thicker erection. "Intimidating..."

John slid the hand on Sherlock's up and brushed the purple shirt down off his shoulders. "Intimidating, eh? Well, then I guess we'll go slowly..._very_ slowly."

Sherlock leaned forward slightly to shrug his arms free of the shirt. As the shirt dropped, John leaned in, running his hands over Sherlock's chest and shoulders. He captured Sherlock's lips with his own and pulled him back toward the middle of the bed. He lay back, pulling Sherlock with him, so Sherlock lay atop him, putting him in control.

"May I touch you?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

John let out a deep chuckle. "You touching me is what got this started! _Of course_ you can touch me...wherever you like." He lay back completely, letting Sherlock take the lead.

Sherlock straddled John's hips and gazed down at him, awed at the idea that he was allowed to touch this man. He gave in to his earlier urge and began to lightly stroke his fingers over John's torso. So much data to record...

...like the way gooseflesh prickled up on John's skin following the trailing touch of Sherlock's fingers...

...the way John's breath seemed to catch in his chest when those fingers ghosted over John's nipples...

...the way John was watching him, looking up at him as if he were something to be treasured.

Deciding there was way too much room between them, Sherlock leaned forward catching John's lips in a heartfelt kiss. Wanting as much contact as possible, he straightened his legs out behind him so he lay full length upon John.

John moaned up into Sherlock's mouth, nipped at the plump bottom lip. He ran his hands up Sherlock's sides, wrapping around his back and stroking the lean, wiry muscles. Pressing his hands firmly against Sherlock's skin, he stroked his way down Sherlock's back, slipping his hands under the loosened fabric of his trousers to gently knead the perfect buttocks. As John pressed down with is hands, he thrust his hips upward, grinding against Sherlock's erection.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he gasped at the increased contact. At John's next thrust, Sherlock ground his hips down, shuddering violently at the friction.

"Oh God," Sherlock breathed.

"Like that?" John whispered into Sherlock's mouth. "Let's get these out of the way and do this properly." He shifted his hands, pushing the trousers down low enough for Sherlock to kick them off entirely.

Finally there was nothing between them except John's hand as he lined them up and wrapped his fingers around both of them. Sherlock covered John's hand with his own, following the rhythm John set and began to thrust into their joined hands. The moan that reverberated through the room could have come from either of them.

John thought he had never seen anything quite so erotic as Sherlock's long musician's fingers wrapped around them both. John's breath was coming in such short pants he worried that he might pass out before he could see Sherlock come.

A glance at Sherlock's face proved that fear was completely unfounded. The man looked completely wrecked. Seeing him so close was nearly enough to push John over the edge.

"Come on, love. Let me see you. Let go." John breathed, locking eyes with Sherlock.

Sherlock ground down once, twice more, and shuddered as his orgasm thundered through him. John followed a bare heartbeat later, the sight of Sherlock coming undone enough to make him lose control.

As he came back to himself, John became aware of Sherlock, lying next to him, resolutely refusing to meet his gaze.

"What is it? What's the matter?" John reached up with his clean hand and lightly traced his fingers along the prominent cheekbone.

"I...I'm sorry", Sherlock's normally confident baritone was barely a whisper. "I couldn't control myself…"

John knew he shouldn't, but he honestly could not keep his laughter at bay.

"Maybe you should try observing, Sherlock." He chuckled again. "I came barely a half a heartbeat after you and I'm supposed to be the experienced one."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he considered this. "But you said we were going to take all night."

John's grin became downright predatory. "Oh, we aren't done yet…I have plans for you tonight."

Once again Sherlock's eyes skittered away. "You called me 'love'. Three times."

"So I did," John replied simply.

"Is that what I am? To you?" Sherlock seemed to be holding his breath.

"Of course. What else would you be? What other possible reason could there be for me staying with you through all of your shenanigans? I love you."

Sherlock's breath left in a rush. His eyes closed. When he opened them again, the emotions he had denied having for so long were shining through.

"I...I love you too, John."

"Got your breath back?" John quirked an eyebrow.

This time the smile lit up his whole face. Sherlock reached out for John, pulling him close.

"Ready when you are."


End file.
